Once Upon a November
by hyacinthian
Summary: He didn't go there with the intention of asking her to dance. It sort of...happened. RachelFinn.


_Homecoming is like the Grammys - it's not as good as Prom (the Oscars), but anyone who's anyone has to go. That's why they give away all that free alcohol, to make the time go faster. Plus, ten years from now, when they interview me about how I've managed to retain my youthful enthusiasm for my craft and managed to avoid cynicism like all those other artists out there - I think Katie Couric will find me surprisingly charming, but extremely ambitious and intelligent - I'll just explain how it's all because of Mr. Schue and the little people and oh, I just had so much fun in high school. Just look at my Homecoming pictures!_

He has to blink a few times to make sure he's not seeing things. _Rachel Berry, _of all people, is at Homecoming. She's standing against the wall, looking awkward but trying not to, chin defiantly stuck out. She's wearing this red off-the-shoulder dress that highlights her, ahem, assets, and he's having a hard time forcing himself not to stare at her.

Quinn, unfortunately, sees her too. So they end up approaching her (the group of them) and - he recognizes this look, the determined stoicism, plastered cheerful smile - a feeling of doom settles low within him. "Aw, Rachel," Quinn coos, mockingly, "Couldn't pay your cousin to take you, huh?"

Her friend dutifully cackles. "I'm sure you'll get more calls once you're _post_-op." They flip their hair at her and walk away, laughing.

He shifts awkwardly on his feet for a few seconds, trying to think of what to say. "Rachel," he says, her name lingering on his tongue a little too long.

Quinn's noticed his absence by now, standing tensely with her arms folded, lips pursed. Rachel gives him a small smile. "It's okay, Finn. Go be Finn and Quinn." (Buy one, get one free!) As he moves away, he takes one look back. He can't swallow the image of how small she looks - her hair a dark splash of color against the long wall. Her hair spills over her bare shoulders and his fingers twitch for just a second, itching to touch her. Quinn sets a forceful hand on his forearm and with a bright smile of her own, says, "Let's dance."

_Daddy said if I was going to go, I wouldn't be caught dead wearing one of those ugly taffeta explosions that look like Willy Wonka on LSD found his inspiration in his own barf - Daddy's words, not mine. He designed my dress for me - custom designers are always important for red carpet events. It's really like rehearsal for the actual Grammys. I did have to intervene with the sequins though - I'm a star, I want to sparkle, but not so much that they can see me from space. Papa even made me a matching corsage. We're like a family made in heaven._

Quinn has her head against his neck, her breath warm. "Puck is _so _wasted," she whispers with a soft laugh. He just mumbles something. "He shouldn't have pre-gamed the pregame." Out of the corner of his eye, he spies Rachel, swaying alone in the corner, mouthing words to another song, eyes closed. She looks...different.

It makes him think back to those _ridiculous _rehearsals they had for "No Air." Mr. Schue's trying to do some kind of Tony-and-Maria thing (he still has no idea what that means or why Kurt glares at him every time he says that) but he can only do so much when Rachel hates the song. But the one time she committed to it, and held his hands, making these overly dramatic movements right at him, both of them belting out this love power ballad that's _so _cheesy --

(the first time kurt sees it, he's speechless)

it kind of almost feels real. Almost. But he doesn't think of Rachel that way. Honestly.

Still, at the end of the night, as things start to wind down, he walks over to her, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Quinn, by this point, is a little too drunk to care, sitting in the corner with Puck, debating the merits of normal Barbie vs. Barbie and Ken in the Malibu Beach House. "Hey," he says.

She looks up, surprised. "Finn." She blinks. "What happened to Quinn?"

"She's over there."

"Oh." Rachel's quiet for a few seconds, before, "This is why I never drink punch at school dances. You never know what people dump in it, and the next thing you know, you wake up roofied next to a guy with crabs who doesn't even _go _here. Flasks are way too concealable."

He laughs. "It wasn't the punch."

She shoots him a look. "Okay, it was maybe the punch _a little bit_, but we pregamed. She did most of her damage there, trust me." Rachel still looks wary, but he sets his hand on her wrist by way of argument, and then, his eyes are on hers, and, "You want to dance?"

She gives a little smile and that awkward half-shrug that she's practically trademarked. "Sure."

They're playing some halfhearted emo power ballad (it's _that _time of the night, requests) but her arms gradually move from his shoulders to clasp behind his neck and suddenly, he's a little warm and the room is a little stuffy. He pulls her closer (not on purpose, it just _happened_), her hips flush against his and she just looks so _something _right now, face flushed, lips dark red and slightly parted.

(The DJ starts packing up the equipment.)

And packed in the center of all these people, he leans in before he can think about what he's doing (he learned that from one of those Disney Channel Original Movies, tm, "Don't think, just do."), his lips find hers and she is just so warm and soft in his hands (and she might have moaned into his mouth...just a little).

The minute he pulls away, the guilt of his father and Darren come rushing back. She sees it in his face.

"Mistletoe," she says, a little breathless. (Quinn is sleeping with her head on Puck's shoulder and, oh, god, what has he just--)

"What?"

"It's not just for Christmas," she says. "And when you stand under it--"

"Rachel..."

"When you stand under it, you _have _to kiss someone. Those are the rules. That's just how it works. Quinn will understand."

"I didn't mean," he stammers. "I mean, this was totally--"

"It's okay," she says.

Halfway home, his hands are clenched around the steering wheel, knuckles white. He can't forget the look on her face and that stupid Jordin Sparks song seems to be on every radio station he turns on.

-

It's warm out, so she walks home. The minute her key is in the lock -

"Hey, sweetheart. Homecoming Queen?"

She blushes. "No, daddy."

"You should have been. You look _gor_-geous, if I do say so myself." Papa bats at Daddy playfully.

"I think the corsage really is the deal-breaker."

"How was the dance?" they ask, simultaneously.

She smiles and starts to head upstairs. "Good," she says. Her dads cheer.

-

_Twenty years from now, Katie Couric will ask me, "What happened in high school?" And I'll look down the 1.3 seconds it's been scientifically proven makes you look more modest and then, I'll say, "Love." And the producers will aww and everyone will root for me. It's bound to happen._

-

Maybe that song _No Air _isn't so bad after all, she thinks, running a brush through her wet hair as she readies for bed. (No, she decides. It's still _terrible_.)

He calls her twenty minutes later, checking to see if she got in okay. She has to smile at his actions. They end up talking for hours about their favorite Muppets (Kermit and Miss Piggy). Her dads rap on her door and tell her to go to sleep the moment she has this big yawn. She can hear his smirk from the other end of the line.

"I really tired you out with that one dance, huh?"

She aims for the disapproving sigh, but it just comes out soft and muted. "I'm not tired," she mumbles, eyes feeling heavy.

"Yeah," he says, sarcastically. "I bet you're just bouncing off the walls." He interrupts her when she goes to say something. "Good night, Rachel."

"Good night, Finn."

That night, she dreams of dances.


End file.
